


In Transit

by kelppy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:55:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6064752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelppy/pseuds/kelppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Lexa's busy accumulating airline miles, Clarke spends her time in between trying not to miss her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Transit

**Author's Note:**

> Work of fiction so I claim to know nothing about lawyers and what they do. So please take it with a grain of salt. Bartender could be Octavia, Raven — couldn't decide so I didn't specify.

_Flight delayed. I’m in town._

The text comes near midnight, when you’re busy touching up on your written assignment and curled into the blankets in bed. Finn’s sleeping soundly next to you, having given up on trying to convince you to go to sleep, his hand outstretched on the sheets, carelessly over your thigh. Napoleon is settled by your feet, watching you closely through a yawn.

“Don’t judge me,” you snap at the Russian Blue, and he responds with an indignant, drawling “meow”.

Your thumbs pause over the screen, thinking of a proper response. You know her: she’s probably just looking for a way to kill time. And it _has_ been sometime since you last met her, and you remember her — only because she had been wearing your loose white shirt and tight leather pants. (There was also some alcohol involved, and vomit.)

Your phone lights up with another text. _You coming?_

You glance at you mostly finished assignment, then at Finn, then at Napoleon, who blinks lazily at you. And you think, _fuck, fine whatever_ , and you throw your feet off the bed. Napoleon only moves to occupy your space next to Finn, nestling into the warmth you’ve left behind.

“You’re spoiled,” you tell him, and he doesn’t even bother to respond.

You text back a quick reply. _yeah._

And it doesn’t occur to you as you drive through sleepy traffic that you’re excited to see her.

***

You find her in a café, dressed in a silk shirt and office pants, looking worn and close to burning out but still so pretty. Her hair is down today, tumbling down her shoulders in loose, untidy curls. She’s absently stirring her half-empty cup of coffee and checking her watch on a slender wrist when you arrive, nudging the chair across her with your hip.

Then her eyes flick up to yours and you think, _oh._ They’re dull, jaded, even, but at the sight at you something flickers in them, the green-grey like a fogged over forest.

You think she might smile, but her face is stormy and she scratches at her hairline impatiently. “Apparently the plane needed a spare tire.”

You take the seat across her and reach for her coffee. She doesn’t say anything and lets you. “I didn’t know planes needed spare tires.”

Her brow raises. “That’s what I said. Must be a fuck-up in the system somewhere. All this efficiency and for what, I still have to wait for a plane.”

Then she looks at you, sees how your hair is barely held up in a bun, and your faded hoodie and your sweatpants and she smiles slightly for the first time since you last saw her. “What were you doing when I texted you?” she asks, dragging her coffee back across the table to drink it.

You shrug. “Finishing up my paper.”

“That’s what I like about you,” she laughs. “You’re a workaholic. Knowing you it probably wasn’t due anytime soon.”

You scoff, “Please. You’re the same, if not worse. And I’ve got about a week left for the paper.”

She nods. “And that’s probably why we didn’t work out.”

Well that had been a part of it. Mostly it was because she was never in one place for longer than a week because of her job, and the both of you just don’t see how that could work. It seemed a little childish to keep on at it, and so the decision was mutual. It was a completely logical choice but you’ve agreed to stay friends and here you are.

She’s watching you with poorly-disguised want in her eyes, her make-up a little smudged from the flight over.

“How much time have you got left till your next flight?” you ask.

“About two hours.”

You get up and she follows, barely suppressing a smirk. “My car’s in the parking lot.”

***

You don’t make it to the car.

She leads you into the toilet and proceeds to press her mouth against yours and you’re powerless to stop it really, because you’d almost forgotten how she kisses, how soft her lips are, how she sighs at the contact like she misses it. Her hands tug at the drawstrings of your sweatpants, unknotting them.

And thank god the toilet is empty, because you don’t think the sounds that came out of your mouth were anywhere near appropriate, and the soft jazz moaning through the toilet speakers hardly concealed any of it — the dramatic tinkle of piano keys gradually climbing into a crescendo as her breath hitches and pants into your ear; the steady _ba-bump_ of the cello like the beat of her heart underneath your hand, the bleating pull of the sax as her jaw sets and a shudder runs cleanly through her.

You frown at the smear of lipstick at your jaw through the mirror. She’s grinning wildly, looking absolutely pleased with herself as she wets some paper towels at the sink and passes it to you. But when you reach out for it she pulls you closer instead and kisses you again, and again, and again.

“Mm,” you say. “Someone missed me.”

She wipes the lipstick off your face. “You have no idea how put off I was when I was told that I had to transit here, and my connecting flight was half-an-hour apart.”

You roll your eyes at her, but your hands grip her waist. “And there you were complaining about the delayed flight.”

She smells like cling-wrap, like the in-flight blankets and a faint trace of perfume. You probably smell like the seats of your car, Napoleon and your bed. Her eyes soften as though she misses it.

“Well,” she says, checking her watch again. “We’ve still got about an hour or so. What do you want to do?”

“Maybe you wanna sit down for coffee or something and you could tell me all about being a bigshot lawyer?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I could do that.”

“Great. It’s on me.”

***

She finds another café in the airport and tells you about her job over coffee. You’ve probably had too much and her, not enough, but she talks and you listen and she sounds ecstatic over her prospects, her solid ambitions that will mostly likely happen, knowing her, and you can’t help it, but you feel a slight twinge watching her talk about her growing career.

“So how about you?” she says, sipping at her coffee and smacking her lips at the taste. You see the lipstick stain she leaves behind on the rim of the styrofoam cup.

“Huh?”

She snorts. “How’s med school? How’s your life? How have you been?”

“Fine. I’m just studying till I drop dead asleep and repeating the process, I guess. And I work on weekends. My life’s really boring compared to yours, now that I think of it.”

She smiles. “You don’t draw anymore? Or paint?”

You make a face. Between Napoleon, Finn, med school, work and friends, you don’t really make time for your hobbies. “I’m busy.”

She looks like she’s about to give you cliché advice when you shut her down with a raised hand. “Not everyone’s hobbies can be lucrative. You’re just lucky yours was arguing aggressively and doing paperwork.”

“But it’s your passion.”

You shrug. “I’m not sure if it is. I don’t think much of it when I’m not doing it.”

She decides to let the matter rest, simply content with observing you with severe eyes. “You look good,” she says.

Sex will do that do a person, you think, but you don’t mention Finn or your romantic endeavours, ever. “I probably look like shit. You’re just saying that.”

“No, really. You look happier.”

“That’s because the last time I saw you, you threw up all over my new shirt and on my shoes. I’m still waiting for compensation, by the way.”

She rolls her eyes again (she seems to be in a habit of doing that lately), but traps your hand underneath hers. “You know what I mean.”

“Why, do you want me to be sad? Cause if you wanted weepy, sad sex, you should have told me earlier.”

She looks sharply at you and you _almost_ regret your comment. You’re great with your tongue usually but it gets you into more trouble than you can get out of.

“Forget it. You’re still the same.”

You don’t say anything. There’s a call for her flight later on and she gets up, smoothing down her shirt and swiping invisible crumbs off her pants. She takes one look at you, as if gauging your current mood and you forget how you hated it when she assessed you as if you were to be psychoanalysed.

But she decides to pull you into a hug all the same, and you can only think _, god, how much I missed you_. It feels nice sometimes to just be hugged. Sex is nice too, but you really do miss just hugging her, or holding her hand. Simple, innocent intimacies.

You don’t ask when she’ll be back, she doesn’t tell you, either. That’s because she doesn’t know, while you think she’s kind of like painting — you don’t really think of her when you’re not with her. With everything going on, it’s really quite easy to forget and just ease into daily routine.

She doesn’t say when she’ll be back, but she says, “I’ll see you soon?”

It’s not a promise. You know her better than that.

“Yeah,” you breathe into her shoulder. “Yeah. See you soon. Have a safe flight. Don’t miss me too much.”

She’s smirking when you pull away and you know it’s the same for her.

She kisses you a last time before hauling her luggage away (black, and professional-looking), and you watch her leave, as you always have. On days you can’t seem to remember her face, for some reason, you remember her back, rigid and stiff and retreating further away.

***

“Where did you go last night?”

Napoleon is curled up and dozing on Finn’s lap at the kitchen table, eating soggy cereal and milk as you come in.

“The paper was killing me. I needed some fresh air,” you say, moving around him to get to the fridge.

“You work too hard, you know that?” he says, but there’s no menace in his words. It’s only amused and slightly concerned, and not in the ‘it’s-threatening-our-relationship’ kind of way.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I know.”

“I had to sleep with Napoleon last night,” he makes a face. “Not the greatest sight to wake up to.”

You lean over to kiss him, and he hilariously, immediately pushes Napoleon off his lap so he could pull you onto it. Napoleon lets out a protesting hiss, but then wanders off elsewhere in the apartment, dejected. His hot palm falls down your back, cups the bottom of your spine.

“You hurt his feelings,” you laugh into his mouth, tasting the sour tang of milk.

“I didn’t know you cared,” he says.

“Well, it’s not me you’ve been sleeping with lately,” you tell him and he laughs heartily. “You should be nicer to him.”

He withdraws and looks pleasantly surprised. His lips curl slightly, his brow raising. “Are _you_ telling _me_ to be nicer to _my_ cat when you spilled water on him last week and nearly stepped on his tail?”

You roll your eyes. “That was an accident and he was in the way!”

“Yeah, tell that to him. Napoleon holds grudges.”

You laugh again and you feel a pleasant warmth in your chest, lukewarm and not at all burning, like a cosy and familiar fireplace to come home to. You don’t think of her and her dark eyes much, if at all. Instead you settle on his lap and touch his floppy hair lightly. This is easy. Easier.

***

Her eyes are dark, hungry. Her fingers clutch at your hip bones, feeling the bone there with a kind of reverence. She looks at you as though she could consume you.

You match her intensity easily. It’s one of things that she found so attractive in you, after all. And you tend to live up to expectations.

She kisses you like she’s coming home to you, you kiss her like you’re running out time. It’s all frenzied and desperate; she doesn’t have much of a home in a physical sense and you know she’ll have to go soon. Her hand settles on your thigh. Your hair’s in her mouth.

She looks at you as though she might just love you. You look away because you can’t seem to hold her gaze. Her body tenses beneath you; perhaps she can feel your disappointment. Lately you’ve been an angsty thing, so full of misplaced resentment you’ve no idea what to do with.

And then she arrives from where-the-fuck-ever, smiling so tenderly at you, smelling like lotus plants and green tea. Her hair is a mess and her heart, messier, but she is _so_ giving. Peering down at you through hooded eyes and smoothing your hair down the sides of your head in sleepy tranquil. Lips parted as if to speak or to kiss, but doing neither. Her fingers catch on the soft lobe of your ear and they stroke the cartilage.

Then she whispers, “Come here.” And it goes on, and on and on.   

You go home to Finn in the kitchen, grease on his fingers and sweat stains on his jumpsuit. You’re loose-limbed and feeling as if you might melt, but he gathers you in his arms and he inhales the scent of your hair deeply.

“Did you change your perfume? Smells different,” he breathes and you tense under his palms.

“Yeah,” you say. You lean up to kiss him hastily. “Long day at work?”

His hands move to your stomach. “You have no idea,” he says.

***

While she showers you delve into her carry-on luggage, fishing out her passport, crisp and weighted to the touch. It’s her whole world in there, you’re aware. You make a brief mocking sound at the back of your throat at her passport picture, way too serious and on the verge of a frown that is so like her.

You flip through the pages. Most of them are full with colourful stamps, both domestic and international flights. Some of them have run and smudged into the pages. There’s an eighth of a coffee-mug stain on one page.

Delaware, New York, South America, Japan.

She emerges from the bathroom in a woolly bathrobe, hair scraggly and wet. You can smell the generic hotel shampoo from where you lie, stomach-down, on her bed.

She smiles at you as she pads to the dresser, as if she hadn’t expected you to stay but is relieved you had.

You hold out her passport, spreading the pages with your fingers to outwardly declare her passport picture. “Even here you look like a grump.”

She shakes out her hair. Smiles at you through the mirror. She’s obviously in an amiable mood.

“I remember having that taken,” she says. “We were fighting. That’s why I look upset.”

“Huh,” you say, feeling the corner of the page with a finger. “Why were we fighting?”

“Honestly, I can’t really remember now. I think it had something to do with a vacation, or something.”

“Oh right.” You remember now. “I booked a flight for us, but you couldn’t make the date.”

“I _had_ told you beforehand.”

“It was meant as a surprise,” you say, somewhat defensively. All this time and the both of you are still reduced to scrounging up old arguments, as if there had been anything left to salvage from the relationship save for hungry eyes and greedy hearts. “It was our one-year anniversary.”

That had brought up something fresh. A stubborn old wound that refused to heal. Still aching in the cold mornings, sometimes.

She frowns. Her hands stop fussing with her hair. She goes to you on the bed, sitting closely by so your shoulder touches her side. Her hair drips onto the sheets; she doesn’t care. She’s fresh from the shower but her hands are warm, tugging gently at the ends of your hair and lightly massaging the nape of your neck.

She looks at a black stamp on her passport over your shoulder. “I had a client in Australia.”

“I’ve never been.”

She laughs softly. “Maybe I’ll take you sometime. Don’t you have a break coming up soon? It’s all easy traffic and rolling beaches. You’ll love it.”

But it’s a long-shot. The offer only stands till she has to meet another client somewhere else. You say, light-heartedly, humming as if considering it, “I’ve already got plans lined up for the break.”

“Oh,” she says, not sounding too disappointed. You try not to let it bother you. “Going to see your mom?”

You don’t have any concrete plans yet. “Yeah. You know how she is.”

“Right, of course I remember. Send my regards to her.”

You’ve stopped talking to your mother about her, actually. And your mother hadn’t asked, but you say, “Sure, of course,” all the same.

***

“Why is it that when I’m with you, my clothes always get ruined?” you complain, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Probably ‘cause you dress like you deserve to get puked on?”

You glare at her. “I fucking hate you.”

“Aw,” she says and takes your arm. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You pull your arm out of her grasp rather viciously and she turns, tilting her head at you. “I can do it myself,” you say.

She purses her lips but doesn’t say anything, nodding and slipping through the crowd to join her friends. It’s a company party or whatever, the clientele had apparently been immensely satisfied with the results and hence the totally loud, totally unnecessary and totally uncomfortable party that has you familiarising with the bartender way too much than the usual.

Plus, she’s cute. She has really bright eyes and nice arms, and she can put together a mean drink. Her hair has volume and you wonder how it’d feel to thread your fingers through them. But unfortunately she appears unavailable, if not friendly, and she seems to have something going on with the other bartender, who’s hot as well.

Figures.

What bothers you most is that she’s left you mostly alone, nursing a drink, before an underage-looking girl who can barely contain her liquor threw up on you. And _then_ she seems to realise you’re there (and only because she begged you to go; the nerve of her) and materialises next to you to help.

Except you don’t want her help. If you need to be puked on to get her attention, then she can be absolutely sure you don’t want it.

The hot bartender looks pitifully at you, and gestures to the bathroom in the back. You manage to smile (a little pointedly and purposely) at her and you stalk away. You nearly cry as you’re swiping off the nasty vomit off you when you hear the (presumably) underage-looking girl throwing up in the toilet alone and then you just have to laugh a little, even if it’s exceedingly mean.

When you find her again, you’re calmer and cleaner, and she looks cautiously at you. You know how much she’d hate for you to make a scene in front of her friends and colleagues (then she shouldn’t have brought you and left you, should she?).

But you simply ask, “Are you drunk?”

She’s holding a drink, but it looks mostly untouched and she widens her eyes, shaking her head.

“Good,” you say, and you press your car keys into her hand. “I’m going home. You can use the car.”

For a moment she looks horrified. You know have no idea why; you’re trying your best to be understanding. You know she has to build good rapport with her colleagues, you know how her presence is necessary in achieving what she wants, and so you know she’d be staying for a while. You just hadn’t expected her to have abandoned you, left you to fend for yourself amidst these white-collared, snooty-eyed, capitalist, patronising, trust-fund babies. (They hadn’t been particularly mean or unkind, but they were about as friendly as a self-loathing 7-11 cashier, and you’re in a horrible mood).

“Wait,” she calls out, seizing your wrist. “What about you?”

“I’ll take a cab.”

“No,” she returns your keys. “You take the car. I’ll be staying for a while anyway. I can just catch a ride later.”

Perhaps you’re a little upset that she doesn’t even bother to stop you from leaving. So you make it a point to flirt a little with the hot bartender, even going so far as to getting her number (though the bartender’s made it clear that she’s only interested in being friends because, in her own words, “you look pissed and I think you’re funny as fuck when you’re upset and I could use something like that in my life”) before leaving.

But you’re extremely stubborn. A trait you pride yourself on, and everyone just seems to hate. You understand why, actually, it’s pretty fucking annoying. You shove the keys into her hand, and snap, “Just take the goddamn car.”

Then you leave. You don’t let yourself feel upset about it until you’re at home alone because Finn’s working a late shift, curled into Napoleon who somehow just senses how close to crying you are and lets you hold him.

“For such an asshole,” you tell him as he blinks sleepily at you, “you’re really sweet.”

The same can’t be said for some people though.

***

_I’m sorry._

She doesn’t call you, knows you probably wouldn’t answer. She’s smart, you’d give her that. You ignore it and go back to highlighting your textbook with Napoleon sitting on your lap when the next text comes.

_I’m in town for two more days. Truce?_

You snatch your phone off the sheets and you angrily type out a response. _go fuck yourself._

Your phone chimes again a few seconds later. _But it’s so much more fun when you’re doing it with me._

_go catch a flight to vancouver and go fuck yourself_

_I’m not going to Vancouver._

_i don’t give a fuck_

_C’mon. Please. I’ll only be in town for two more days. Let’s not do this._

_go away i’m busy_

This time she really does call, and you hesitate but you do realise that she won’t stop until you’ve forgiven her. Persistence, that is about all she is made of on her worse days.

“Did you not read my text? Have you gone blind overnight?” you snarl harshly into the phone.

“Look, I’m sorry. I have to socialise with my colleagues. You know how important that is to me. It’s not personal,” she says, sighing.

You can imagine her, facing the large, arched window of her hotel room and pressing the back of hand into her forehead, as if dealing with a difficult client. The thought of it, the image, pisses you off even more, which is unfair, because she might just be sitting on her desk, by a travel-sized pint of whisky, appearing as miserable as you feel.

“It never is with you,” you spit.

“ _Clarke._ ” She says your name softly and it makes you falter. You hate how she tends to do that. “I’ve got two more days here. Two. You can hate me after I’m gone, but _please_. We only have two days left and I really don’t want to fight.”

She does have a point. You go quiet for a moment or so and she calls your name again. “Are you there?”

“Fine,” you grumble. “What do you want.”

“Lunch?” she asks, and she sounds so hopeful you don’t think you can refuse.

And to be honest you’ve rushed to finish all pending assignments just to spend time with her, so there really isn’t much of an excuse to stay home and avoid her altogether.

“Will your _colleagues_ be there too?”

She says your name again, but this time she sounds tired and resigned. “Are you going to let me make it up to you, or what?”

“Fine. I’ll be there.”

“I’ll see you then.”

***

Lunch is at her hotel, the expensive, minimalist and airy kinds, and thankfully it’s only the both of you. She’s dressed professionally, pressed collared shirt and office pants and a navy blazer with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair is light and brown and tied up into a ponytail. She’s swiping things around on her phone, biting her lips and apparently deep in thought.

“What’s with the get up?” you say, feeling self-conscious in your t-shirt and jeans.

“I have a meeting later,” she says, distractedly.

“Oh.”

Your voice doesn’t sound disappointed. It doesn’t. Not at all. But she looks up at you from her phone and she smiles a little guiltily and puts her phone away where she won’t look at it. So two days with you isn’t really two days after all.

“You don’t have to, you know,” you tell her, stirring the tea — an Earl Grey blend — they’ve served beforehand, your voice even and your expression completely neutral. “It’s work, I understand.”

She looks pained. “I wanted to spend time with you before I have to go to work. Is that so wrong?”

The fight in you is quelled, and you feel defeated because she doesn’t look any better than you feel. Maybe you were being unreasonable. Maybe you were being a little too harsh on her.

“No, I’m sorry,” you sigh. “You’re right.”

She smiles slightly, and she straightens herself up. “Of course I am.”

“But that doesn’t give you the right to be so goddamn smug about it,” you fire.

“Lawyer’s rights,” she smirks.

“There’s no such thing.”

“Yes there is.”

“No there isn’t.”

“Yes —”

“Shut up and let’s eat lunch.”

She laughs and presses the pads of her fingers in the hollow of her eyes. Then she waves the waiter over and begins to place her order. When she turns to you, you select a random pasta-based dish on the menu, and you request wine, which she grimaces at but doesn’t say anything in opposition until the waiter leaves.

“Drinking so early? Are you making a habit of that?” she says, lightly, because she knows how touchy you get when she tries to be the mature mom between the two of you.

“Well it’s not like I got to drink much last night,” you say and she nods, accepting it.

“But you’ve got that bartender’s number. Surely you could get free drinks from her anytime.”

You laugh, amused. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” she says simply. She busies herself with the wine selection on the menu, running a finger down the catalogue. “I’m just glad you have someone to take care of you in my absence.”

You frown. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. Is this what this was? Were you ‘taking care of me’?”

She makes a face, folds the menu and sets it aside at her elbow. “That’s not what I mean. I only meant — you know, in bed.”

“So you were ‘taking care of me’?”

“Please don’t be difficult.”

“No wait. So you were fucking me just because you felt sorry for me?” your voice is rising and she looks around, alarmed.

“No!” she rushes whisperingly. “I don’t — you know I don’t feel that way for you. We’re friends. I don’t think of you as a pity fuck. I would never.”

“So what did you mean, then?” you settle back into your chair, feeling heated.

The wine arrives and the waiter uncorks it and goes to pour the wine. The both of you are silent as he does it, terse and strained. When he moves to pour wine into her glass, she lifts a hand and says, “No, thank you.”

“I invited you to lunch as a peace offering,” she explains, in a restrained, calm voice that’s indicative of her coming close to losing it. “Not to fight. I care for you, you know that. I only worry about you. I hadn’t intended to offend or hurt you.”

“You’re being awfully cordial,” you reach for your wine glass and swirl it around for a while.

She is silent for a moment, her hands clenched tight at the sides of her white rattan chair, her eyes sharp as she looks at you as though in disbelief. You can hear it in her head, the ‘ _I can’t believe…_ ’ followed by a line of expletives. Her mouth tightly pursed but so close to saying them aloud. You know how she gets when she’s frustrated, or upset.

She’s about to stand when your hand reaches out to grab hers, but you can’t, of course, because she’s too far and there’s a table in the way. The silverware clatters instead. But the gesture does not go unnoticed and she looks at you expectantly.

“Wait. I’m sorry. I’m — I don’t think before I speak. I don’t want to fight either.”

“Are you sure? Because you seem to really want to,” she says, but she slowly returns to her seat.

“No, I was just…disappointed, maybe.”

“Because of last night?”

Because of a lot of things, actually. Because you’d really hate for her to leave. Because you kind of miss her and you don’t really want to admit it. Because you feel something soft and simultaneously hard for her (and not in the literal sense). Because you hate how you lose all sense of control and reason when you’re with her. Because you’re thinking of Finn at home with Napoleon and this whole life you’ve built around her absence and how easy it was to do that.

“Yeah,” you say and she softens.

“I’m sorry,” she says, genuinely, sincerely, contritely. “I really am. I’m even sorry you got puked on.”

You laugh briefly. She frowns a little, then picks up on a smile again, and she really is pretty, all fluid and effortless elegance. A ballerina’s grace and the stunning breath-taking beauty of a stained-glass window, most unfortunately for you. She’s the most put-together person in your life right now (barring your mom) and you can’t help but to be envious of that. It speaks volumes — how she’s seeing the world and you’re just stagnant, barely making rent and arguing with the cat. She had told you that you were meant for “greater things” but you really don’t see how that’s possible.

“So am I forgiven?” she ventures.

You stare at her for a moment, thinking of how vastly different and yet similar the both of you are. And you say, “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that. But you’re forgiven, for now.”

She supplies you with a wide smile that instantly banishes all kinds of anger in you. Why hadn’t she just done that before?

***

“Does your whole life revolve around alcohol?”

The bartender looks different in daylight, when you can actually see the browns of her hair and the irises of her eyes. She quirks her lips at you as she sips her beer. Apparently the line has been commonly used on her. By then she has stopped bothering to properly answer.

“Cheers,” she says instead and clinks her beer against yours.

“So why’d you ask me to dinner?” she asks.

You shrug. “It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. I was scrolling past my contacts and calling the names I stopped on.”

“So you called me.”

“Yeah, looks like it.”

“Okay, since you dragged me outside, I get to ask questions.”

You wave a hand at her dismissively, picking at your greasy fries. “I suppose that’s fair. I could be a serial killer for all you know.”

“I don’t. That’s the point.”

You frown. “Okay, go on.”

“Who was that girl you were arguing with last night at the bar?”

You stop jostling the fries around and look up at her. “Isn’t that kind of personal? I mean we’ve only just met yesterday.”

She shrugs over a swig of beer. “I don’t waste time. Plus, you’re just lucky you called my number. You could be having this conversation with your mother.”

You glare at her, though it’s softened by the dimming fluorescents of the restaurant. “I would never have asked her to dinner.”

“So you did give it some thought when you asked me to dinner?”

Again, you glare at her. She seems unperturbed by your response. “We had a thing going on, once.”

She nods sagely. “But now it’s over?”

“Did it look over to you last night?” you ask wryly.

She chuckles. “No, it didn’t.”

You sigh, reaching for your own beer with salt-dusted fingers. The place is relatively empty, and there’s nothing to keep you distracted from her questions, except maybe for the low-hanging lights with its iridescent crystal shades. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“You look really excited to hear it. I really don’t want to hear you one-up the story. It’s not a competition over whose relationship is more fucked up, okay.”

She looks offended. “I like complications. I’m a bartender, which, on a Monday afternoon, means part-time therapist.”

“Fine,” you say. “We had thing in the past. But then she had to leave to pursue her career and I can’t go with her ‘cause I’ve got med school and she wasn’t going to ask me anyways. So we decided it’s best to end it. But we’re perfectly mature adults and we are not above the occasional booty call when she’s in town.”

“Hmm,” is all she says. “That’s tough. So, no feelings?”

“I mean, we’re _human_. And the break-up wasn’t exactly because we didn’t want each other anymore. We still did — no, we still do. It was a break-up of convenience and we’re too cynical for long-distance.”

“Wow, you’re a mess.”

“Thanks. You should see how she deals with it. She looks impeccable.”

“And what about you,” she gestures towards you with her beer bottle after having another go at it. “Did you move on?”

“Move on?” you let out a bark of laughter. “I fucking sailed on. I’ve got a boyfriend and an apartment and a _cat_ — he came with the guy — and I’m happy. I don’t even think of her much when she’s not around.”

“But you’re a mess when she’s around?” she guesses.

“Yeah,” you sigh, leaning your head into your hand. “It’s like months-worth of work just going down the drain, you know? Like it hadn’t happened at all. Regressing into that same girl I was when we were together.”

“I think we should raise our glasses to how fucked up your relationship with her is, and while we’re at it, we should raise our glasses to you potentially considering couples therapy.”

You laugh but you raise your bottle to clink it against hers.

***

Someone’s shaking your shoulder. It must be Napoleon. That fucking cat with thumbs. Always trying to peeve you just to get your attention. It’s not going to work and you should tell him that doing that would not get him any more treats. In fact, if he doesn’t stop, he won’t be getting any. Of course he would understand — any cat with thumbs and a decent grasp of English could.

But someone — Finn — is calling your name and telling you to wake up.

You turn, groaning. “It’s too early, Finn.”

“No, there’s someone at the door asking for you,” he tells you, and his brow is creased. “A girl. Formal-looking. Are you in trouble?”

You sit up immediately. An error screen is pushed to the forefront of your mind. “What?”

***

Finn, the sweetheart he is, had invited her into the living room, where he had offered her coffee. She’d politely declined, and you just think: how she looks so out of place in a place she has no right to be at.

When you see her, she smiles at you, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s more out of greeting than anything. You don’t even bother, staring at her disbelievingly. Finn, bless him, seems to have felt the tension, because he picks up Napoleon from where he’s lounging on the couch and escapes to the bedroom, shutting the door after him.

“So this is why you insisted I couldn’t just crash at your place instead,” she says, softly, distantly.

Her face is ashen, and her hands won’t stop trembling on her lap, and her eyes are languid, glossed over. “Why are you here?” you ask, shortly, on the shorter end of the leash.

She shrugs. “I just needed someone tonight. It was a bad day.”

You almost feel sorry for her. You probably would have, if you weren’t cranky and sleep-deprived. “I’m sorry, but I’m already taken.”

It sounds childish, petulant. You cringe internally when you say it. Evidently you revert back to an immature teenager when lacking sleep. She looks up at you and her face crumples. You think she would cry but she just laughs, staggering and lashing sound that is ugly.

You inhale sharply. “What was I supposed to do, wait for you? We broke up —”

She holds up a shaky hand. Then puts it down immediately as soon as she remembers she’s shaking. “Don’t sound so defensive. I wasn’t going to accuse you of cheating or anything. In fact, if anyone should, —”

“Don’t finish that,” you snarl.

She scoffs at you, turning away to survey the apartment. Then she says, “I like your cat.”

“He’s a pain in the ass.”

“Look at that. He’s coming to resemble you more and more,” she says, flatly.

“Wait,” you say, holding a hand to your head as it begins to clear. “How did you know where I live?”

She shrugs casually, disinterested in the question. She gets to her feet, unsteadily, but then regains her bearings and solidly walks to your front door.

“Wait, where are you going?” you call after her, having half a mind to follow.

“Ho—” you think she’s about to say home when she stops and shakes her head. “Back to the hotel.”

“Hey, but wait, are you okay?”

She turns, and she considers you carefully. Her eyes are now guarded, and god, you had forgotten how much you’d hated it when she shut down on you like that. “For the record, I never expected you to wait for me. You’ve got your whole life going on here. I shouldn’t be here.”

And it stings more than it should, her admittance, because the both of you know it’s true. It’s hard to leave, even as she seems to have no trouble doing it, harder to be the one left behind. But as you watch her disappear into the elevator, you wonder if you’re the one leaving, or the one left behind.

The lines have blurred (when have ever been clear?) but it certainly feels as though you’ve just left her.

***

Finn doesn’t ask much about that night, and you’re glad for it. He’s filling in for someone else at work the next day, dropping an understanding kiss to your hair you probably don’t deserve. Napoleon is, once again, in your arms, purring at the heat you’re emitting. It’s strange how you’ve come to tolerate the cat. Some days you might even like him.

There’s a pending text on your phone. _Sorry about last night._

_you’re always apologising for things you did last night_

_Yeah, I remember._

_i think you’ve apologised enough now. can you stop?_

You see her typing out a reply when you remember something, and you ask her, _did you find someone last night_

_Yes._

Napoleon stirs and moves to sit in your lap, pawing at your sleep shirt. You distractedly stroke his head while you think of a reply. Finally, you settle on a, _can i come see you today?_

_You know where I am._

***

You’re not too surprised at the state of her room. It’s neat, clean, even the bed is made. It’s as if she hadn’t lived in it at all. She’s in a bathrobe and her hair is wet. There’s water dripping into her brow. You can see the lightly tanned skin of her chest, the dents of her collarbones where her robe is gaping. Of all things to be disgruntled by.

“Were you done showering?” you ask.

She appears almost bashful, her hands tightening the sash around her waist. “Yeah, why don’t you wait out here while I get dressed.”

You seize her wrist and she looks up at you, an odd, warped glint in her eyes. “Don’t bother.”

And you kiss her, your hands seeking, probing, pushing the robe down her shoulders so it hangs at her waist and kissing the skin there. She gasps, resisting but you only tilt your head to kiss elsewhere, tasting her skin, fresh and cold from her shower.

You’re kicking your shoes off when she slips a hand under your shirt and presses it flat to the fevered skin of your stomach. You inhale through your teeth.

She pulls away, pressing your hand more firmly into your stomach as a warning of a sort. “I’m not going to stop you. I mean, if we’re going to do anything, we might as well fuck. But you have a boyfriend.”

You blink at her, your hands unclenching at her bare shoulders, leaving tiny crescent-shaped imprints of your nails. “I don’t need you to be my moral compass.”

You try to kiss her again, but she evades it. You glare at her. She says, “You’ve got yourself a normal, functioning life outside of me. I don’t want you to ruin it just because I’m in town, because, I want to remind you, I won’t be here for very long.” Then she adds softly, apologetically, and her hands wander to your face, holding it there, “I’m not staying, you know that.”

“ _I know that_ ,” you growl impatiently. “If all we’re doing is just fucking, why would that bother you?”

“It doesn’t. I just wanted to be sure _you’re_ perfectly sure.”

“I knew what I was doing way before I came in through that door.”

This time, she lets you.

***

She rolls to her side, sticky and spent, and lays her head on a pillow, staring at the ceiling. “I know you blame me for it.”

“What?” you drawl, beginning to feel drowsy.

“This whole mess. Leaving. My single-mindedness. My devotion to my career.”

And you had, for a while, but it gets tiring to be consistent. You shift so you’re lying on your stomach, and you dig your chin into her shoulder, peering up at her. The sheets are kicked off and it’s starting to feel cold, so you press more insistently into her side.

“I just hate you because you made it seem so easy to leave,” you murmur.

She motions at your entirety, “But you made do. You’re doing well now.”

“No better than you.”

“It’s not a competition,” she reminds you gently and her hand travels up and down your spine.

“Not unless I’m winning.”

She smiles, amused. “I forgot just how much of a sore loser you are.”

You lay your head on her shoulder. “When do you leave?”

“This evening,” she sighs.

“Where are you going?”

“Denver, for a bit.”

“Oh,” a beat. Then, “Do you want to try this?”

She’s contemplative, something like hope flickering in her eyes, but then her thumb just swipes lazily at your skin and she’s looking at you fondly. You know what her answer will be.

“No,” she says mildly. “I’ll always be en route. You don’t deserve that.”

“Yeah, it’s probably never going to work.”

But your eyes are watering involuntarily. You suck in a harsh, shuddery breath and attempt to twist your face away from hers but she simply watches you, her hand not retreating from your back. Her other hand goes to your face, cups your cheek. Her thumb traces your cheekbone, the skin underneath your eye.

“It’ll also kind of suck to break up twice with the same person,” she whispers and you laugh wetly.

“To be honest, I only agreed to breaking up with you because I hated the feeling I get when I’m around you. It’s like I’m obligated to spend as much time and as fruitfully as I can with you. Like trying to run on water—” here, you shift so your head rests against her bare shoulder; can’t stand the apologetic look in her eyes, “— There’s not a moment when I don’t panic that our time together will be cut short any more than it already is. And then it’s also easier, more practical — there’s just so many pros against the cons.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” she says, her eyes fluttering shut.

“Stop apologising,” you say snappishly. You bring your arm up to curl against your chest.

“I’m not going to be able to apologise in person for some time after this, so just let me apologise as much as I want.”

“Then let me kiss you again.”

She smiles, her eyes still closed, and you take that as permission granted as you lean in to kiss her. Kissing her on her closed mouth, then kissing her with her lips willingly parted, then kissing her until the world spins around you and she’s the anchor grounding you to the present.

“God, I can’t get enough of you.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

You send her to the airport later, and you watch her leave, again. It hurts less. You’re less tempted to run towards her and stop her from leaving. You know she won’t anyway.

“You’ve never introduced me to your cat,” she tells you, and she seems actually offended by the notion.

You roll your eyes at her. “His name’s Napoleon, that’s probably all you need to know about him.” You wet your lips. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah,” she says and she kisses you, fully, on the mouth. “See you soon.”

You go home to Finn and Napoleon snacking together on the couch and you join them. He pulls your feet to his lap and Napoleon stretches across the length of your legs. He says something stupid and you laugh. Napoleon purrs in consent.

“I love you,” he says, ducks his head and averts his eyes.

“Funny,” you say, scratching Napoleon behind the ears. “I love you too.”

You don’t think of her.

 


End file.
